Sylvia's Lovers

There were men there, too, sullen and silent, brooding on remedial

revenge; but not many, the greater proportion of this class being

away in the absent whalers.

The stormy multitude swelled into the market-place and formed a

solid crowd there, while the press-gang steadily forced their way on

into High Street, and on to the rendezvous. A low, deep growl went

up from the dense mass, as some had to wait for space to follow the

others--now and then going up, as a lion's growl goes up, into a

shriek of rage.

A woman forced her way up from the bridge. She lived some little way

in the country, and had been late in hearing of the return of the

whaler after her six months' absence; and on rushing down to the

quay-side, she had been told by a score of busy, sympathizing

voices, that her husband was kidnapped for the service of the

Government.

She had need pause in the market-place, the outlet of which was

crammed up. Then she gave tongue for the first time in such a

fearful shriek, you could hardly catch the words she said.

'Jamie! Jamie! will they not let you to me?'

Those were the last words Sylvia heard before her own hysterical

burst of tears called every one's attention to her.

She had been very busy about household work in the morning, and much

agitated by all she had seen and heard since coming into Monkshaven;

and so it ended in this.

Molly and Hester took her through the shop into the parlour

beyond--John Foster's parlour, for Jeremiah, the elder brother,

lived in a house of his own on the other side of the water. It was a

low, comfortable room, with great beams running across the ceiling,

and papered with the same paper as the walls--a piece of elegant

luxury which took Molly's fancy mightily! This parlour looked out on

the dark courtyard in which there grew two or three poplars,

straining upwards to the light; and through an open door between the

backs of two houses could be seen a glimpse of the dancing, heaving

river, with such ships or fishing cobles as happened to be moored in

the waters above the bridge.

They placed Sylvia on the broad, old-fashioned sofa, and gave her

water to drink, and tried to still her sobbing and choking. They

loosed her hat, and copiously splashed her face and clustering

chestnut hair, till at length she came to herself; restored, but

dripping wet. She sate up and looked at them, smoothing back her

tangled curls off her brow, as if to clear both her eyes and her

intellect.